


Chasing Moonlight

by Ferrero13



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrero13/pseuds/Ferrero13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an unexpected turn of events, Monthly Pro Tennis publishes a special on Seishun Gakuen's regulars. Written by Shiba Saori, the regulars' tennis has been glossed over in favour of more personal information, and Fuji Shuusuke is nothing if not an opportunist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t been in this fandom for 9 years, but well. I was working on drawing a series of gender-bent Seigaku regulars (just for fun) when I stumbled across this little gem in the wiki that listed each member’s details and, well. It occurred to me that Tezuka was exactly Fuji’s type, and Fuji, with a bit of effort, could be Tezuka’s, so, why not? I’ve shipped them for 9 years, after all, and it’s time I gave my second oldest ship (behind Harry x Ginny, because I’m pedantic that way and have wanted them together since I first started reading the series nearly 10 years ago) a story. So here’s to you, my first slash OTP.
> 
> Thus far, nobody has written a Fuji who has actual sociopathic tendencies, so I would like to try that. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Fuji is a sociopath in this story, but his internal monologue will make it fairly clear that he doesn't think much like normal people, which in my opinion is how he actually is in canon-verse. I don't think Fuji is sadistic because he likes watching people suffer. I think he _seems_ sadistic because he doesn't always care if they do. Or maybe I'm the one who doesn't think like normal people and the way I've written Fuji is actually how normal people think. I don't know. Anyway, please enjoy!
> 
> Rated T because my humour's kind of dry and boring and Fuji isn't always kind. I don't expect children to understand half of the unsaid words, which will probably make it hard to keep up with the story sometimes. I might raise the warning to M/E if I ever decide to write smut into the ending, in which case I will also have to add the 'underage' warning...

“I didn’t know that your type is someone who gives their all in everything, is energetic, and serious, Tezuka.”

Tezuka pauses mid-bite and glances up. Fuji gives him one of his many meaningless smiles and snaps a photo before sitting next to him, grateful for the shade that the cherry blossom tree provides from the midday sun. The ground is soft and dry, the bark against his back is slightly knobbly but otherwise smooth, and Tezuka can always be relied upon when it is sunny outside to have lunch under the old cherry blossom tree at the back of the school that gives a clear view of the tennis courts.

“It seems that even our ever-stoic captain is no match for Shiba-san’s sheer tenacity,” Fuji says, finger on the shutter-release button prepared for any interesting faces that Tezuka might make.

“If you are here to make fun of me I suggest you leave,” Tezuka intones, returning to his lunch.

Fuji takes a photo anyway.

He flips open a copy of the current Monthly Pro issue, chuckling, “I thought maybe you’d like to learn more about your regulars. Look, Echizen confessed that he likes girls who look good in ponytails. I guess Sakuno-chan would stand a chance if she stops braiding her hair. What do you think, Tezuka?”

Tezuka frowns and Fuji quickly snaps a photo, which only seems to increase the intensity of his disapproval. “Whom Echizen does or does not like is none of our business, Fuji. Nothing matters as long as he continues to perform admirably.”

“There’s nothing but tennis and fishing for you, is there?” Fuji teases. “Even if you told Shiba-san your ideal type you’re not actually interested in dating yet, are you? If only you knew how many girls you’re disappointing by being so obsessed with tennis.” Fuji flutters his eyes at Tezuka in jest, though the effect is rather spoiled by how they always seem to be closed anyway.

Tezuka takes the moral higher ground by refusing to be baited, eating his rice sedately while Fuji just smiles and takes another shot. Fuji didn’t come for the conversation, after all. If he wanted to talk he would be in class with Eiji discussing their latest attempt to set Kawamura up on a date with the girl in his class whom he’s too shy to talk to. Instead, he is out here half-heartedly drawing clipped admonishments from Tezuka, whose presence Fuji sometimes admits to himself anchors his flighty, racing thoughts. Tezuka is calm in a storm, the bobbing leaf stalk in the swirling convections of a hot tea cup, and Fuji likes that his mind slows down whenever he’s with him.

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be you if there’s nothing to commit yourself to,” Fuji comments, looking up into the sky. Clouds are sparse and the sun shines hotly, and Fuji blocks the glare with his hand, squinting his eyes to see the blueness beyond the light. “You’ve got to direct all that intensity somewhere.”

Fuji does not see when Tezuka tilts his head slightly to look at him, quietly and intensely as if he is a seldom read but often quoted book uncovered from the dusty recesses of a library that has eluded him for years. The moment passes unnoticed when Fuji shifts a little closer to Tezuka to bump their shoulders together.

“Do you ever think that someday we’ll be old, but we’ll meet every Sunday at a tennis court and talk about how our grandsons chased moonlight in puddles and our granddaughters held sunshine in their hands?”

“You might, perhaps; I will be less florid.”

“Says the one who uses words like ‘florid’,” Fuji smiles, “but I can see you boasting about their many academic achievements without actually boasting, and you will be so proud of how they were born with tennis rackets in hand.”

Tezuka raises a sceptical eyebrow. “That is a physical and biological impossibility.”

“And your sense of humour will continue to be an abstract possibility,” Fuji adds.

“Maybe you’ll have learnt something about kindness by then.”

“He jests!” Fuji exclaims, delighted, and flashes Tezuka a quick smile that is anything but meaningless. He brushes their shoulders together again, and this time, Tezuka gives him a small smile that is, nevertheless, a smile.

Fuji takes another photo.

\---

“Fuji-kun!”

“Ichimura-san,” Fuji greets as a girl steps quickly into the dark room and closes the door behind her. She glances at the photographs that Fuji is developing and grins deviously.

“Tezuka-kun again, I see.”

“There’s no need to sound so surprised,” Fuji says benignly. He has been taking photos of Tezuka since they were first years, and the photography club is no stranger to the little space in the back of the dark room that he has usurped for the sole purpose of hanging them out to dry. While he does also develop photographs of sweeping mountain ranges and quiet street corners, the neck of the woods that has been set aside for his regular Tezuka-related photos appears to be what he is best remembered for amongst club members.

“I’m not.”

“You’re missing the point,” Fuji hums lightly. People can be so pedantic sometimes.

“Whatever. Are you going to do something about that?” Ichimura looks pointedly at the Tezuka shrine.

“Once they’re done I’ll be taking them home as usual.”

Ichimura rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Fuji-kun. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I, now?”

The girl snorts ungracefully. Apparently club chairpersons are exempted from showing courtesy to their members. “Are you ever going to tell him? I think he deserves to know if, by my mental tally, you have close to a five hundred photos of him.”

“Six-hundred and twenty-five, actually. When this batch is done it’ll be six-hundred and thirty-eight,” Fuji responds idly, pinching another photograph from a shallow water bath and deftly hanging it on the line.

“See! This is exactly what I meant! You have six-hundred and twenty-five photos of Tezuka-kun, each and every one of which you develop with more care than your other projects! Fuji-kun, you need to go big or go home.” Fuji has noticed that doling out advice is a hobby of hers when she is not too busy bossing people around, though he also notes she doesn’t seem to be very good at it.

“I think you are mistaken, Ichimura-san.” Fuji’s smile turns razor-sharp, “I have never meant to do anything about this. What is, is. Please don’t confuse reality with flights of fancy, and please close the door on your way out.”

Ichimura favours him with a wilting glare but leaves without putting up a fight. Aside from his Tezuka shrine, the club knows very well the consequences of provoking him to anger, which, while rare to the point of being mythical, is not easily suffered by the faint of heart. Even the chairperson has to occasionally make allowances for Fuji because his mind is quite nearly from another world and she has no idea what he is thinking at any given time, so insisting wouldn’t do anyone a whit of good.

When she is gone, Fuji sighs in the direction of the Tezuka shrine. “What makes you think I’m not already trying?” he whispers to himself.

He has been fascinated by Tezuka from the moment he laid eyes upon him. A spark was lit in him when he first noticed that Tezuka, who had thus far only been seen playing with his right hand, was left-handed, and he was promptly set aflame after their first match when Fuji learnt what it truly meant to have passion. The spark and fire have since burned a path to his heart, where a conflagration now roars, caged carefully and meticulously in, and it keeps him warm when he finds it hard to care about anything but how the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind will not quiet.

It is a flame that he stokes when he needs to push himself to win, because there is nothing more devastating than knowing that he has contributed to the bitter taste of defeat on Tezuka’s tongue. He may not care for much else—he finds it so difficult to summon up the slightest hint of affection sometimes, though he manages for his family because he loves them regardless—but caring about Tezuka is so effortlessly easy it would be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

It’s quite ridiculous, really. Caring about Tezuka is both painless and painful at the same time. He doesn’t know why Tezuka matters so much to him. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s obsession. Whatever it is, when he feels it his world explodes into shades of colour and the blur of thoughts slows to a manageable pace. Perhaps it is his curse to have all emotion sucked out from everything only to be confronted with its pent up force around one person.

He doesn’t mind that he isn’t anything but a friend to Tezuka—it is good enough for him to be able to be both stirred up and calmed when beside him. But the possibility of something more, something else, has always been there and now, more than ever, with graduation drawing near, Fuji wants it.

He has been trying for years to draw closer to Tezuka and he has, for the most part, succeeded. In light of Tezuka’s downright unfriendly strictness, Fuji has become his best (possibly only) friend and confidant. It is here that he hits upon a glass wall. He wants more of the joy and warmth but he can’t possibly get any closer than this without changing something in their relationship fundamentally and forever. As far as he knows, Tezuka’s sexual orientation might as well be tennis for all that he seems unaware of anything outside of the sport.

Fuji would like to say that they’ve laughed and cried together in the last year, but Tezuka’s too stoic for any of that, and Fuji himself too uncaring. They do come close enough with regular, satisfying tennis games and the occasional lunch date (which were not dates, Fuji reminds himself), and looking at the photographs he’s gathered he can chart a slow but steady increase in the frequency and honesty of Tezuka’s smiles.

But the magazine has given him something to go on, hasn’t it? The question remains, however, if Fuji is willing to change himself to meet that goal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fuji makes a decision and Tezuka is wary.

He wakes up bright and early the next morning and decides that he is willing.

He barely knows who he is to begin with anyway. He is too many thoughts and too many interests, too many talents and too many smiles. If he tries something different, maybe he will learn what it is that truly makes him a person and not a collection of atoms pieced together by fate and chance. It is a stretch, but it is a chance he will take if it means that he will become more real to himself (and Tezuka).

If Tezuka wasn’t lying—and Tezuka _never_ lies—then Fuji just needs to try harder at everything. The obvious place to start is school, and the obvious subject to start with is his worst subject, Science. Fuji has never particularly cared for mitochondria beyond being grateful that they keep his cacti alive. What little he knows about ecology pertains to hot, dry deserts where cacti grow, and the birds and insects that pollinate their flowers. In fact, his entire scientific knowledge can be narrowed to a tiny subset of biology that revolves around cacti, and what he knows of this very specific niche rivals his knowledge of tennis.

Fuji supposes that he can do anything if he applies himself to it, and so he takes his Science textbook, which has so far been untouched, with him to school.

He spends morning practice reciting formulae for inducing electric currents, muttering to himself about the relationship between alternating and direct currents. He gets a little side-tracked by an amusing internal debate regarding Nikola Tesla and Thomas Edison’s respective contributions to the scientific community because conflict and controversy has always intrigued him, and is even more distracted when Tezuka, stern and comforting at the same time, joins him for his morning warm up jog.

“Good morning, Tezuka,” Fuji says.

“Good morning, Fuji,” Tezuka replies, and Fuji’s smile becomes genuine.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Fuji remarks between breaths.

Tezuka makes a sound of acknowledgement.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to tutor me on Science after school?”

“I would be if you promise me that there will not be a repeat of what you did previously,” Tezuka answers. Fuji marvels at how level his voice is even though they’ve gradually picked up their pace and are now running.

“Oh, you of little faith,” Fuji chuckles. “I promise. I swear that there will be no fangirls in the library this time. I suppose you can think of this as me trying to get into a good school.”

Tezuka finally looks at him, his expression conveying strong scepticism. “In the three years that I’ve known you a good senior high school has never been your priority. What is this really about?”

“Can’t I just be studious without being suspected of ulterior motives?”

“You practically embody ulterior motives,” Tezuka says flatly. “I’d like to think I know you well enough to suspect everything by now.”

“You wound me, Tezuka!” Fuji clutches his chest in mock pain.

“Would you like me to bandage that up for you?”

Fuji grins gleefully. “Anyone who says you don’t know humour clearly doesn’t know you.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Are you saying that I’m a serious and heartless captain of the tennis club who makes my adorable club members run laps for the most minor of infractions? That I am known and loved by everyone but feared at the same time?”

“A case can certainly be made for being heartless,” Tezuka deadpans, and Fuji is as thrilled as he always is when Tezuka stops being perfect and starts being lethally witty. “Does anyone really know you, Fuji? Is everything I think I know about you also a lie?”

“Not everything. You come the closest, Tezuka, because you have the sharpest eyes.”

“I know,” Tezuka says, and it’s not a retort or an attempt to inflame him. He states it with such a matter-of-fact tone that Fuji feels himself falling all over again for how Tezuka sees through him and takes none of his bullshit.

Fuji decides that his honesty will not go unappreciated, and tells him, “And I’m glad.”

They spend the rest of warm up in companionable silence, completing their last two circuits of the courts. He plays a game or two with some of the second years while Tezuka heads off to consult Ryuuzaki-sensei on their practice schedules with other schools.

Half an hour before the bell rings for first period Tezuka finds him in the club room changing out of his polo shirt and into his school uniform. As he fastens the last two buttons on his shirt, Tezuka says, “If you’re serious about studying, I will see you in the library after the student council is dismissed.”

Fuji pulls on his gakuran and smiles at Tezuka. “Well, then, shall we head to our first class?”

\---

He is already there when Tezuka arrives, seated in a quiet corner amongst heavy tomes of Japanese history texts. The textbook that he brought with him is laid out on the table and he is reading about orderly arrangements of carbon atoms in a diamond, making neat notes in the margins as he progresses through the book.

“Fuji,” Tezuka greets and takes a seat beside him.

“I hope you don’t mind that I got a headstart.”

“By all means. Which is your weakest topic?”

“Chemistry,” Fuji replies immediately. While the fascinating history of the names of certain elements has been thoroughly researched to the minutest detail (rutherfordium had been particularly amusing), the properties of elements themselves are lost on him. He knows that carbon is the basis of all life on Earth, and he knows that water is made up of two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom, but under what circumstances would a junior high school student be required to calculate the volume of oxygen required to fully combust a hundred grams of methane gas at room temperature and standard pressure?

“Do you know how to read the periodic table?”

“Not at all,” Fuji says, because he spends Chemistry periods thinking of ways to light a potted plant on fire without triggering smoke alarms. “But just give me a minute and I’ll figure it out.”

Fuji looks down at his textbook only to find it covered by Tezuka’s hand. Tiny text peeks out from under the space between his fingers, and Fuji muses that Tezuka’s hand looks a little mangled from too much tennis—his fingers are slightly crooked and his knuckles pop up starkly against his skin like a tiny mountain range. His skin is also hardened and calloused, and at the tip of his fingers, his nails have been pushed out of alignment from gripping rackets too hard, too long. They look like effort and talent, which in Fuji’s opinion makes for very elegant hands. He remembers that they are gentle when they tend to his wounds, careful with iodine and tender with bandages.

“If you know you can do this then you shouldn’t be here.”

“The library is open to all students regardless of academic ability.”

“Fuji,” Tezuka says, stern. His eyebrows are knitted heavily above a pair of hard, unforgiving eyes, and Fuji feels something heavy start to press upon him until breathing evenly becomes difficult.

“Why don’t you stand by to ensure that I don’t come to incorrect conclusions?” Fuji offers instead, feeling his smile fraying at the edges. It doesn’t disappear, but only because he puts more effort than he is used to into holding it together.

Tezuka considers the option and agrees by leaning back into his chair and pulling out a well-worn copy of ‘The Little Prince’. Fuji admires his strong frame, watches for a moment as he thumbs pages upon pages of English words that make no sense to Fuji unless he squints, before turning back to less exciting matters at hand.

Perhaps he will brush up on English next.

But first, he must calculate the volume of oxygen required to fully combust a hundred grams of methane gas at room temperature and standard pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found my information on their types at this wiki. [[x](http://princeoftennis.wikia.com/wiki/Prince_of_Tennis_Wikia)] You can find it under the 'personal information' subheading of each regular's wiki page.
> 
> I also found another source here with slightly different wording. [[x](http://kuryujiru.livejournal.com/1534.html)]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tezuka makes a decision and Fuji makes a point.

Fuji stares and stares and stares at his textbook and hopes that there is enough oxygen in the air to completely set it aflame. Distantly, his mind runs through the numbers in rapid succession and he arrives at an answer he does not ask for but has unwittingly derived anyway. 735 grams. He needs 735 grams of oxygen to burn this textbook and possibly also catalyse the destruction of their school. This amounts to roughly 490 litres of oxygen, which makes up 21% of the atmosphere. Therefore about 2330 litres of air will be needed for combustion. All figures are rounded to three significant figures.

It is a lot of air that can be put to better use keeping Fuji alive, so he does not contemplate the theft of a lighter from the student at the table next to theirs who almost certainly makes a regular habit of smoking after school.

Tezuka looks up from his book and Fuji flashes him an empty smile. Junior high chemistry is frustrating and intolerable and unbearably simple. Fuji does not understand why it takes three years to finish teaching the material. He concedes that less superior minds may have some trouble wrapping themselves around the concept that there isn’t a time before the big bang because time only started with the big bang, but surely it cannot be that difficult to understand that the equal spacing of four orbitals gives a tetrahedral electronic geometry.

“I surmise that you now have a firm grasp of Chemistry,” Tezuka says over the edge of his book, which Fuji thinks must have once undergone a horrific coming-of-age ritual to earn itself that stain that looks like a tribal tattoo if he tilts his head the right way. He finds Tezuka’s less than stellar treatment of his books to be a point of interest.

“We shall have to wait and see,” Fuji tells him, but he knows with the certainty of an unquiet mind that he will have no trouble recalling concepts during any future tests, along with a dozen other unwanted thoughts on hero shrews and the odds of electing an AI to prime minister. (Disappointingly but understandably low.)

Tezuka makes a noncommittal sound that sounds like a cross between a tired old man and an exasperated boyfriend made to wait with ten bags of shoes outside a changing room. He returns his book to his bag wordlessly and Fuji takes this as a sign that their study session is done for the day.

The library has grown quiet, which Fuji likes because it leaves him alone with Tezuka and nobody will notice if he happens to let his usual bland smile slip to reveal an expression that is almost fond. They bid goodbye to the librarian on duty, a middle-aged woman with more bark than bite and a pair of ostentatious horn-rimmed glasses, and as they step out of the school building Fuji notes that the sky has darkened to a calming shade of navy blue.

The streetlights are in the way of the stars in the same way the sun blots them out in the day. Overhead, the waning moon is the only spot of brightness that isn’t a sodium lamp.

“Don’t do that.”

Fuji tilts his head toward Tezuka. “Don’t do what?”

“Look like you want to be somewhere else,” Tezuka replies, eyes focused on the bus stop ahead of them.

“Do you want me to be here? With you?”

“You are needed for the Nationals,” Tezuka says, and it’s exactly what Fuji expected to hear. He is not particularly disappointed about it because he knows that Tezuka would give an arm and a leg to fulfil that dream. He’s used to taking a backseat to tennis, which Tezuka’s been married to for longer than Fuji’s known him. Regardless, he revels in the fact that he is thought of highly enough to be necessary. (However, if he is to be honest with himself, Tezuka would probably tell every regular member the same thing.)

“Your confidence is inspiring. I will keep that in mind if you stop pulling off ill-advised drop shots.”

There is a conspicuous lull in their conversation when Tezuka refuses to look at Fuji, who graces him with lilting lips that are more challenge than concern. He likes this about Tezuka—his fervent determination, his single-minded resolve. There is nothing more unattractive than someone who doesn’t know how to achieve his goals.

“You’re not just tennis-crazy, are you?” Fuji allows the back of his hand to brush against Tezuka’s knuckles as they swing past each other. “Seigaku tennis club captain Tezuka?”

He sees the tendons in Tezuka’s neck tighten a fraction. “You’re not in any position to talk.”

“Oh? What am I overly invested in?”

“On the contrary,” Tezuka disagrees, and his voice is a comfortable honey-lacquered thing that can easily draw Fuji’s attention away from the clearest nightskies. “I recommend having a strong interest in something other than being entertained by tricks and wordplay.”

“Which is why I’m telling you to keep this,” Fuji pauses to take Tezuka’s left elbow in hand and gives it a light squeeze, “safe.” He doesn’t need to look Tezuka straight in the eye to emphasise his point but Fuji does it anyway because he wants him to know that in no uncertain terms will he take conscious ruination of his elbow lightly. Fuji will not allow Tezuka to throw away his future for the sake of a paltry junior high national championship trophy that will be kept in a display cabinet and polished once yearly.

He may not care for the championship but he cares for Tezuka, and, should they be on a losing streak during the upcoming Kantou Regionals, he will readily throw his singles 2 game to prematurely end their quest for Nationals championship if he so much as suspects that Tezuka is thinking of executing the drop shot in singles 1.

A look of consternation flashes across Tezuka’s features. “This is a dream three years in the making, Fuji.”

Fuji tightens his grip on Tezuka’s elbow until the point where Tezuka grits his teeth. When he speaks he knows that the silk is gone from his voice and a biting chill has settled in its place, “Is _this_ not a dream that’s been around for much longer?”

He releases Tezuka’s arm immediately to take his hand instead. The bumps and blisters on Tezuka’s hand mimic his own—the training for the upcoming Regionals has been tough on all of them.

“Don’t make me choose, Tezuka; you won’t like the outcome.”

Tezuka looks at once frustrated and resigned when they finally make it to the bus stop, and Fuji retreats into his empty smiles.

\---

“Tezuka! I heard about the scholarship to the States,” Fuji says in lieu of a greeting. He falls in step with Tezuka as they make their way to school. “Why did you turn it down?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Fuji,” Tezuka mutters under his breath, no doubt considering the odds of Fuji having planned yesterday’s conversation so that they could have today’s.

“So I was right, wasn’t I? You have something more important than tennis.” As Fuji smiles, he feels like the world is slipping further and further away from him. Everybody has something that they’re working towards, no matter how trivial, while Fuji alone has nothing driving him. It feels terribly lonely, which is not something that he usually minds, but walking next to him is Tezuka, whose entire world revolves around a championship title that is finally within reach, and Fuji doesn’t see how he can compete with that intensity.

His one refuge is slipping away from him and he can’t do anything about it. He wants to hang on tightly to Tezuka’s hand to ground himself but, for the first time in his life, he feels he isn’t worthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuji is starting to scare me and _I'm_ writing _him_. Nights bring out the danger in Fuji. Also, you will never convince me that Tezuka is more tennis-crazy than Seigaku-crazy. There is no way he would damage his arm if being able to play tennis means more to him than Seigaku winning the Nationals.
> 
> I mentioned genderbent regulars in my opening notes. I've posted them on [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3209195) and [tumblr](pencils-pens-tablets.tumblr.com)
> 
> If anyone has trouble following, when Fuji tells Tezuka to take care of his arm, he is very, very carefully hinting, "I have a 'strong interest' in _you_." Which of course Tezuka doesn't get because he's dense that way. Or you can also interpret it as Fuji admitting that he has a 'strong interest' in tennis, and he expects that Tezuka's similarly strong interest should prevent him from using the zero shiki drop shot lest it ruin his future career.
> 
> 24/01/15: Minor edits to stoichiometric calculation because it slipped my mind that oxygen exists as a diatomic molecule in nature.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fuji forgets and Tezuka is stubborn.

The blue sky outside his classroom reminds him of Tezuka’s favourite colours. He tries to recall if he’s ever known Tezuka to own anything blue or green but comes up short once he strikes off Seigaku’s regulars uniform (which isn’t even completely blue). He does wear an awful lot of purple, though, which might be close enough to blue for someone who doesn’t have Fuji's compulsive need for precision and accuracy.

Maybe Tezuka wasn’t entirely truthful to Shiba-san after all.

Fuji muses that they have the sort of relationship where neither of them knows the other’s favourite colours but can fill in all the unspoken words in their conversations. He supposes that it’s better this way since decking himself out in blue will do nothing to win him more of Tezuka’s favour. Right now Tezuka only has the Nationals on his mind, so it would probably be better to say that nothing short of winning the Nationals will gain him Tezuka’s regard. (It would be presumptuous if it were anybody else, but for Tezuka the Kantou Regionals might really be no more than a bump in the road leading to his ultimate goal.)

At the front of the classroom, Moriyama-sensei is urging the class to start revising for their mid-year examinations. Fuji’s mouth quirks in amusement when Eiji buries his face in his arms and starts cursing under his breath, though from the way Moriyama-sensei is glaring at him he isn’t all that discreet. He knows that Eiji will put off studying until the very last moment to improve his stamina for the Regionals, but he also knows that part of that procrastination is due to unadulterated laziness.

Eiji and he are alike in that regard. It’s no wonder that they make such good friends, though Fuji thinks that half the time he finds himself laughing at Eiji, not with him.

He rather enjoys listening to Eiji’s idle chatter between classes. While he finds it rather lacking intellectually, exclamations about wasabi-flavoured toothpaste has an inexplicable way of helping him tune out the rest of the world. Sometimes, when he’s feeling charitable, he contributes to the conversation by throwing in a couple of non sequiturs that never fail to leave Eiji thoroughly confused.

The bell rings, signalling the end of second period, and he takes opportunity to head over to Tezuka’s class during the short break before third period English. He has forgotten to bring his English-Japanese dictionary for class today, and he knows that Eiji will be asking Oishi for his because Eiji never brings his dictionary anyway. It gives him a perfectly valid excuse to drop in on a whim.

Before he can look past the students milling around in his line of sight between him and Tezuka’s almost front-row seat, a familiar voice calls out to him, “Fuji-kun!”

How inconvenient.

“Ichimura-san.”

“Here for Tezuka-kun again?”

“No, I was looking for you,” Fuji says blandly even as his continues to will people out of his way with the power of his mind alone.

“Me?” It amuses him that even now, after half a year of being in the same class as Tezuka, she hasn’t learnt that Fuji never comes to 3-1 looking for anyone _but_ Tezuka. Surely nobody’s learning curve could be that steep.

Somebody shifts a little to the right and Fuji can now see Tezuka silhouetted against the glare of morning sunlight slanting into the classroom. He looks as rigid and forbidding as usual, and Fuji smiles at the noticeable dearth around his desk where nobody enters for fear of laps. “You should have your ears checked. I said I’m looking for Tezuka,” Fuji deflects cheerfully, and deftly manoeuvres his way toward Tezuka, leaving Ichimura to rub worriedly at her ears behind him.

Tezuka raises his head to look at him before Fuji reaches his desk, acknowledging him with a curt nod.

“I have English next,” Fuji says.

Tezuka doesn’t even raise an eyebrow before retrieving his dictionary from under his desk and passing it over. “Would it hurt to ask?” he reproaches.

“But this is so much faster.” He takes a seat at the conveniently available desk in front of Tezuka’s. “Has the line-up against Hyotei been decided? I want to play the one who defeated Yuuta.”

When Tezuka refuses to answer, Fuji knows that it has, and Tezuka becomes aware that Fuji’s imminent disappointment will have nothing to do with his brother. He reads it in the way Fuji stops aimlessly gazing about the classroom, how his eyes now seem fixed on nothing and everything all at once.

“You shouldn’t.”

“You think about your brother a lot.”

“And you don’t think enough.”

“My elbow is fine.”

Fuji recognises diversionary tactics as well as can be expected of someone whose conversations are built on them. He leans backwards against the wall and casts a sharp sideways glance at Tezuka, “Are you?”

“I am perfectly healthy, Fuji.”

Fuji finds it far too easy to ignore him. It doesn’t matter why Tezuka insists on keeping up this charade when they are both aware that Tezuka is more than capable of spinning a few lies despite the strength of his moral fibre. “Atobe will exploit it.”

“There is nothing to exploit.”

“If nothing else he will milk your stubbornness for all it’s worth. It will be a long match.” His warning falls on deaf ears.

“Which I am well-equipped for.”

“I hope so.” They both know that he doesn’t share Tezuka’s confidence, never has and probably never will. Fuji rarely dedicates himself to any one side of an argument or belief, and while Tezuka does not appreciate his capriciousness, he seems to like Fuji enough to make an effort to tolerate it, which is good enough for him.

The rest of the room is abuzz with conversation while they sit to the side of it and try not to direct their gazes at each other. The silence is not uncomfortable—it has been a trademark of Tezuka’s presence for as long as they’ve known each other—but Fuji wishes that Tezuka will stop thinking that he has to keep all his problems to himself so as not to impose on others. Fuji welcomes it. He _wants_ Tezuka to impose on him. He likes how he feels real and tangible during the brief moments when those who know his many opinions on morality still choose to rely on him.

It has been so long since he last felt validated. The last time it happened, Yuuta yelled at him for being so over-protective but ended up asking him if he should transfer to St. Rudolph. Fuji gave him his blessings and it felt, at that time, like he had just scooped out his heart and poured his blood all over Yuuta’s hands.

He doesn’t want to be that exhausted ever again.

“Tezuka,” Fuji says, turning his head to look at him.

Tezuka looks back at him and waits patiently for his next words.

“Are you lonely?”

Tezuka doesn’t look away from him. His eyes are unwavering and stern as they burn a way through Fuji’s, and Fuji catches himself thinking that this is exactly how a predator calculates its odds of a successful hunt just before approaching its prey. Tezuka’s gaze does not stray from his face and Fuji meets it and holds it.

Wind blows in from the open windows, and Fuji doesn’t resist a quirk of his lips when Tezuka’s flyaway hair becomes yet more dishevelled. He notices that Tezuka’s hand twitches to rearrange his hair, so he reaches out and sweeps it away for him after making sure that nobody is watching.

Tezuka’s eyes turn stony but he accepts his fate with good grace as Fuji’s fingers deftly push hair out of his face. After the breeze has stopped and Tezuka has glared Fuji’s hand away, they continue to sit quietly until the bell rings for third period.

As Fuji gets up to leave, he hears Tezuka say, “No.”

The rest of the day seems calmer after that, somehow.


End file.
